


The Great Hiatus

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 366 [17]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Supernatural
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Anger, Angst, Army, Assassination, Attempted Murder, Betrayal, Childbirth, Coping, Danger, Depressed John, Disguise, England (Country), F/M, Fan-fiction, France (Country), Friendship, Gay Sex, Grief/Mourning, Johnlock - Freeform, London, M/M, Male Prostitution, Marriage, Minor Character Death, Murder, Nobility, Police, Pregnancy, Protection, Statues, Strangulation, Sussex, Threats, United States, Victorian, Writing, clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:01:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 12,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24390979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The Complete Cases Of Sherlock Holmes And John Watson. All 366 cases plus assorted interludes, hiatuses, codas &c.1891-1894. The famous hiatus, not great at all for poor John Hamish Watson who struggles through three bitter years of trying to keep his friend's memory alive while somehow living what remains of his own life. His friends rally round to keep him alive and Sherlock safe while the detective dispatches several more Moriartys to Hell – but has he underestimated one of his targets?
Relationships: Lucifer/OMC, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Elementary 366 [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555741
Kudos: 20





	1. Contents

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lyster99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyster99/gifts), [vitabear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vitabear/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contents page.

** 1891 **

**Interlude: Blast Site**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Sherlock survives the explosion – but there is still pain_

 **The Great Hiatus, Part I**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_John tries to get on with his life, but finds things difficult_

 **Interlude: Friendly Persuasion**  
by Mr. Benjamin Jackson-Giles, Esquire  
_Lucifer has a promise extracted from him (among other things)_

 **Interlude: Deflection**  
by Mr. Sherrinford Holmes, Esquire  
_Sherrinford has his and his twin's needs to consider_

 **The Great Hiatus, Part II**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_There is a blanket, and John finds that at least he can still write_

 **Interlude: Unsteady Eddie**  
by Miss Clementine St. Leger  
_Threats to John's life continue - from some surprising quarters_

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** 1892 **

**Interlude: Sons And Lovers**  
by Lady Aelfrida Holmes  
_Lady Holmes considers past, present and future problems_

 **The Great Hiatus, Part III**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_There are births, deaths and marriages as John struggles to cope with his loss_

 **Interlude: Case Closed**  
by Inspector Gawain LeStrade  
_Sometimes, good policing is no policing_

 **Interlude: A Hands-On Approach**  
by Lady Aelfrida Holmes  
_The authoress is Furious (a Level Eight) with her eldest son_

 **The Great Hiatus, Part IV**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_John battles on, and some things do not change_

 **Interlude: Cherbourg**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Sherlock is frustrated but help will – eventually – be at hand_

 **Interlude: Need To Know**  
by Mr. Benjamin Jackson-Giles, Esquire  
_Lucifer's lover muses on friendship, love, sex and his definitely not becoming a sap_

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** 1893 **

**The Great Hiatus, Part V**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_John has a Moment in Piccadilly Circus_

 **Interlude: Piccadilly**  
by Mr. Lucifer Garrick, Esquire  
_Lucifer is angry when Sherlock makes a decidedly poor decision_

 **Interlude: Grandfathering**  
by Brigadier Carlyon Holmes  
_A not-that-old soldier does some weeding_

 **The Great Hiatus, Part VI**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_An old friend makes an unexpected call, and a man dies happy_

 **Interlude: Last Man Standing**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Sherlock finds a reminder of John in France_

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** 1894 **

**Interlude: In The Club**  
by Mr. Lucifer Garrick, Esquire  
_Sometimes the wrong word to the wrong government official can have terrible consequences!_

 **The Great Hiatus, Part VII**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_John faces a renewed Moriarty danger_

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	2. Interlude: Blast Site

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1891\. Clearing through the wreckage, in both senses.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

There must I suppose be worse things that seeing the man that you love in tears. But my mother's stories apart, they must be few and far between in this world.

Sherrinford and I had been hidden away safely beneath the reinforced floor that I had had installed at his house, and our telescope had showed us the approach of the vile Moriarty and his crew. Eight so-called human beings and not a moral or a scruple between the whole lot of them; thankfully I was not bound by John's maxim of 'first do no harm'; I fervently hoped that the last moments of consciousness to those pitiable excrescences out there would be painful ones.

After the explosion my cousin Luke took John away, and Sherrinford, bless the fellow, spent some time holding me in what John would certainly have called a manly embrace. I wanted so much to be with the man I loved, with every fibre of my being, but I had to stay 'dead' until I had dealt with the six other Moriartys. Only then could I return to the life of the man that I loved, yet who I would make suffer over the next few years. Life was unfair at times. 

Sherrinford had said that he would be using his abilities to help me, and that while he wanted to stay here for now he also knew that the transatlantic through which he could warn me would be broken soon, and he would therefore need to be in England before that happened. He would be there while I made my way around the Continent on a murdering spree. Six men, all of whom had the potential to follow their evil relative into a life of crime, and would certainly take my life if they knew what I had done to improve Mankind. Six men who had either killed or had ordered killed, and had to be eliminated so that I – and my love – could live in peace.

It would not be easy.

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	3. The Great Hiatus, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1891\. John returns from the United States and tries to get on with his life. It is not easy.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

I was man enough to admit that I would not have got myself through the next three Sherlock-less years without the help and assistance of Mr. Lucifer Garrick whom, I suspected, felt the loss of the great man almost as much as I myself did despite his lack of visible emotions. Some six years older than Sherlock, I had met him on but a handful of occasions and it had always struck me that he was far more the typical government agent than either of his and Sherlock's infinitely more annoying relations. I knew that he loathed both Randall and Guilford Holmes almost as much as I myself did, and that he was prepared to work with them without killing them (yet?) was a generous act on his part. That they had helped Sherlock in his escape attempt I had initially considered generous too - until I had found out that Lady Holmes had invited them both in for a talk beforehand during which she had shown them her new pearl-handled revolver. She had also casually mentioned that she had recently taken a course of advanced lessons in how to get the most out of it!

I said goodbye to Mr. Henderson who wished me well for the future, and Mr. Garrick took me back to Kansas City – I was heartily glad to be away from Lincoln – then onto St. Louis where we paused for a day while I tried to pull myself together. Across the vastness of the still-growing United States it took some days to make the railway journey back to New York whence we took the 'Teutonic' back to Liverpool. We hardly spoke for the whole of the crossing and upon arriving late one evening spent a night at a hotel in the port city.

England was even colder than I remembered it, and I found that I had just missed one of the worst late winter storms on record which had claimed over two hundred lives. Not that this registered with me at the time; I was sunk in my own permanent winter of the soul. I fully expected us to start for London the following day but instead we boarded a Lancashire & Yorkshire Railway train for York. I voiced no objection; I did not really care as to where we went now that I no longer had Sherlock. 

On reaching Leeds Central Station Mr. Garrick led me out onto the forecourt and I stared at him in puzzlement. He seemed to be waiting for someone....

“Hullo, brother.”

I turned in shock, and there behind me was the unmistakeable beanpole that was my big little brother Stevie. I stared at him in shock for far too long before all but falling into his arms, weeping like an over-emotional actress in some terrible melodrama. I did not notice Mr. Garrick hand him a sheet of papers before slipping away and my brother led me quietly to a platform where a reserved first-class carriage awaited us. I knew that this must be Sherlock's cousin's doing; there was no way that Stevie could have afforded something like that.

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We had been underway for some little time before I pulled myself together enough to speak.

“Thank you” I muttered.

“Your friend back there has arranged four weeks off work for me including plus childcare”, he said gently. “If you want to return to Baker Street, Sir Edward has said that he will continue to pay your friend's share of the rent for as long as you wish to remain there.”

I felt awkward about that. While I did not like the idea of my being beholden to anyone I knew there was no way that I could afford to keep those rooms as a single tenant. and the idea of allowing anyone else in to share with me.... my blood ran cold at the thought! Unhealthy though it almost certainly was I wanted to keep what little I could of my lost friend. Besides I had stayed there last time and he had come back then.....

Stevie reached over and took my hand in his and I bit back another sob. I was all over the place but I owed it to Sherlock to try to carry on. And to share our remaining and so far unpublished adventures with a Nation cruelly denied one of its greatest hearts and minds, a Nation who could only slowly come to know the terrible truth as to how one of the most wonderful human beings ever to grace this earth was lost to it forever.

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My four weeks with Stevie and Hetty passed all too quickly, the only event of any significance being when I read in the 'Times' that my friend had gone Abroad for a Case of International Importance. Mr. Garrick explained to me that he had paid for that article and would be using it to deflect any of what would initially be a torrent of requests for his help once I was back in Baker Street. He would also employ a secretary for as long as it took it all to die down. I was grateful for that.

Stevie did offer to accompany me back to London when my time with him was up, but I declined. I had to face the horrors of our rooms without Sherlock and I was determined to do it alone. The journey seemed to take forever and when the cab drew up outside 221B I was painfully aware that I was returning to an empty set of rooms.

I had been dreading having to tell Mrs. Hudson and her niece about what had happened but from the letter that the landlady had sent to me, they already knew (Mr. Garrick again, I supposed). I walked slowly upstairs to our rooms – my rooms now – and unlocked the door. Walking in I dropped my bag carelessly on the floor and went to hang up my coat. 

Sherlock's ridiculous 'reserve' deer-stalker hat was still on the coat-stand.

That was when I finally broke, falling to the floor and sobbing uncontrollably. _I had lost him!_

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Fortunately my small circle of friends all knew me well enough to realize that anyone who uttered the old canard that 'life goes on' would receive short shrift possibly accompanied by the irregular and improper use of a medical instrument. Of course it did, if what I had left could be called life. I took on more patients but was surprised to find that my muse, which I had been sure would have abandoned me as a lost cause, was still there. Shortly before the dramatic events that took us across the ocean, I had furnished the 'Strand' magazine with the finished tale of our canine caper in Middlesex (The Adventure Of The Naval Treaty) and counting up, I realized that I had ten more stories that were printable or at least which Sherlock had said could be published before having to recount the recent and terrible events. My erstwhile publishers Brett & Burke were also pressing me for a further book; in the end I agreed to publish the cases up to my friend's death in two books of five stories each, provided as usual that the magazine got to serialize them all first. 

One of the most painful parts of continuing on at Baker Street was having to deal with the daily flood of mail which as Mr. Garrick had foretold continued to arrive. I was deeply grateful to Mr. Garrick for his secretary taking them to a room that Mrs. Hudson set aside for her and then leaving me with just two or three that were important in some way; I could not have coped otherwise. The rest received a standard letter of reply stating that the detective was Abroad and would be unavailable to tackle new cases 'until further notice'. Sherlock's cousin took out further advertisements in the major London newspapers which re-iterated the message and mercifully soon the flood became a trickle. I also owed Mrs. Hudson and her staff in particular for turning away all the personal callers, whom I certainly could not have coped with.

I so missed my friend!

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	4. Interlude: Friendly Persuasion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1891\. Lucifer is persuaded to go to the country.

_[Narration by Mr. Lucifer Garrick, Esquire]_

“I've been thinking, sir.”

I stared up at the huge black behemoth currently impaling me. With what little was left of my mind after another thorough fucking I was quite proud that I could still manage that thing called speech.

“What about?” I asked. Two words, yay!

Benji shifted himself and my insides raised the white flag (again). Un-yay!

“You need to tell Mr. Kerr about Mr. Sherlock, sir”, Benji said. “He's his stepbrother after all.”

Not for the first time I suspected that the behemoth knew full well that Sherlock was alive and well, and plotting his revenge against the remaining Moriartys. For all that my lover could look the barely tamed savage – he still had that costume from the time he had helped Sherlock out, and which he used on the odd occasion of two with me – he was very clever and liked reading as much as he could in his spare time. Often when he had me impaled on the Banjax which was fine with me; I was all for education!

“He is up in Scotland with Alan just now”, I deflected, “visiting that relative who Sherlock helped one time. He is not due back for another week.”

“But you'll go down and speak to him when he does come back, sir?”

 _In other words, you'll trust him with the truth_ , I thought. Dangerous; the fewer people who knew, the safer that Sherlock.... oh no, Benji was pulling out his Sad Face again! That was just unfair!

I sighed resignedly. I was putty in this man's hands (or at least in certain of his other parts) and I knew it!

“I promise”, I said.

“You're so good, Mr. Lucifer sir”, Benji praised. “Just for that I'll walk you up and down the stairs again.”

My eyes widened in horror. The last time the behemoth had done that I had fai..... had had to have an impromptu nap and.... why was I nodding so eagerly. 

Then Benji hoisted me effortlessly up as he rose to his feet, the Banjax thrust in even deeper, and I moaned deliriously. So much for words and speech!

This was the life!

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	5. Interlude: Deflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1891\. Gossip may travel at the speed of light, but someone knows how to use mirrors.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherrinford Holmes, Esquire]_

When the story of what my twin had been doing over the three years of the Hiatus finally came out (rather like my twin, as a later age might say!) one of the questions that the more observant readers asked was as to how the six Moriarty relatives remained unknowing of the nemesis that was stalking them. Not one of them contributed anything to Mankind except to considerably lower the average decency rating of our species and their removal from it was a long overdue and wonderful thing, but that the normally efficient gossip network that would have details of their relative's demise to them in days if not weeks appeared to have failed seemed just strange.

Of course it had not so much failed as it was never given a chance to succeed. Using my powers I was able to foresee each possibility as it loomed and to avert it by informing Miss St. Leger and Mr. Garrick who ensured that each time, the message did not get through. One by one the vermin would be removed, and I would take grim satisfaction in recording each of my twin's 'successes'.

There was also the not inconsiderable danger that news of Sherlock still being alive might somehow leak out from those small few who knew. Not that Miss St. Leger or Mr. Garrick would have ever said anything, but I knew that Mr. Garrick's lover Mr. Jackson-Giles pretty much knew that something was up (although with him, 'something' always _was_ up, as both his wife and Mr. Garrick well knew!). Sherlock's parents had I was sure also worked out what was going on, which meant a considerable danger as four of their sons were loose cannons to say the least. They were however being watched, and although it may be bad of me to say it I almost hoped that someone like the selfish Mycroft, the pompous Torver, the inane Guilford or the insufferable Randall would try something. It would certainly be the last mistake that they would have ever made, and like the Moriartys their departure from this world would have greatly improved it.

As I had told Sherlock I had planned to stay in the United States for a while, but as I had also said I foresaw the coming break in the transatlantic telegraph system, so as soon as I had sorted out matters here I followed my twin back to the Old World. I was playing for high stakes here, just so that Sherlock could re-emerge one day then he and his doctor could.....

Ugh! That was my own twin brother!

On the plus side, I was also getting closer to my own happiness, when I would ascend to my own heights of ecstasy. Climb every mountain.....

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	6. The Great Hiatus, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1891\. The Great Hiatus continues. The second half of that terrible year of Ninety-One, and despite the gloom life goes on for a miserable London doctor. But at least there is some good news from the Continent.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

It was I supposed the Good Lord's sense of ill-humour that a year marked by a most painful death was also that of a number of births. I attended at two of them; August saw the advent of Inspector Gregson's first grandson when his elder son Tobias who had married on the first day of that terrible year had a son named for him and his father, while November brought Mr. Benjamin Jackson-Giles's latest addition to his brood, Anne (six I think; I was losing count with him). The tall fellow had clearly been reluctant to call me in with what had happened, but I assured him and Bertha that I wished to continue helping them in order to honour Sherlock's memory. That of course set him off crying; the poor fellow never did well with emotions (I thought wryly that poor Mr. Garrick would be reaping that particular harvest ere long!).

There was also an addition to the Holmes family that December when Sherlock's sister Anna gave birth to her fourth child, a daughter who was named after her. My friend Peter Greenwood attended on her and he told me that it had been an exceedingly difficult birth, the couple deciding to wait some time before even thinking of trying for another child.

Somewhat inexplicably I had a bad moment that summer, while reading Mr. Thomas Hardy's latest book 'Tess Of The D'Urbevilles'. I had always enjoyed that writer's stories but suddenly the morose tone had me flinging the book across the room in a rage, unable to cope with something that was depressing me still further. I had also largely gone off Dickens, only enjoying the ultimately hopeful 'A Christmas Carol' the copy of which Sherlock had given me.

Another incident that year which demonstrated all too well my own abysmal lack of detective abilities should in all fairness also be recorded. I was looking for something in the back of one of the cupboards when I came across an old blanket of mine which after some thought I recalled that Sherlock had borrowed some time back. Quite what it was doing at the back of a cupboard containing mostly papers was odd, and as I smelled it memories of him came flooding back. I supposed that his scent must have lingered on it somehow and if I chose to stay home that day with said blanket wrapped tightly around me I was not being the least bit pathetic. 

Not _that_ pathetic.

Who was I kidding?

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Despite my depression the words continued to flow from my pen and the story of 'The Engineer's Thumb' was sent in to be edited in October. That would mean that the first of the two books could be published the following spring, which would benefit both my own and Sherlock's charities. Stevie had invited me to travel north and spend the festive season with him but I did not want to spread my poor cheer any further than was necessary, so declined. It was probably unhealthy not wanting to be away from Sherlock's belongings for any period of time but I was past caring about such things. 

The festive season did bring some good news however. One of the late and unlamented Professor Moriarty's relatives whom Mr. Garrick had been concerned over came out second in a duel in his native Italy. It was the closest thing that I had to a Christmas present that season – I could not bring myself to decorate the place as even that reminded me of Sherlock - and never was I so glad to see the back of a year.

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	7. Interlude: Unsteady Eddie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1891-1892. Danger threatens from an unlikely source as every man has his price – but Sherlock has friends watching out for him.

_[Narration by Miss Clementine St. Leger]_

I have done many strange things in my time, but protecting a man who was officially dead was a new level of weird even for me! To complicate matters further, protecting Sherlock naturally meant protecting his doctor friend because although one Moriarty had rightly been blown to Hades for all his vile deeds, he had left six of his family behind each of which had the potential to be almost as bad. One of them had met his own end since, not coincidentally just as someone I knew had been passing through their immediate vicinity, but that still left five of the vermin – and now a new danger arose from an unexpected quarter right here in Merrie England.

Just as Sherlock had established a reputation as someone who always treated the 'lower orders' (me included) well, I had made sure that Swordland's similarly had become renowned for paying more than handsomely for quality information. So when a young servant called Mr. John Braunton approached me and said that he worked as a footman at the home of Sherlock's army brother Carlyon, I sensed that this might be important. I was also curious as to what danger might arise around the area of arguably the most terrifying man in the British Army, who had struck that near impossible balance of having his men both idolize and fear him. It surely could not be anything to do with the recently-promoted brigadier himself.

Indeed it was not, although the danger was from a Holmes. Most of the soldier's sons were fortunate enough to be of his noble character but his eldest, Edward, was unfortunately cut from a very different cloth. He had failed to get into the Army and, Mr. Braunton told me, had loudly and bitterly resented that his father had refused to use his own influence (as so many would have done) to assist him. More alarmingly, my visitor told me that shortly after visiting his grandparents' house Mr. Edward Holmes had returned to his small apartment in his father's house and asked his valet to find out what he could about the Moriarty family. I was sure that said grandparents were aware of what had happened and would not have said anything, but as we all know servants often overhear things and it was possible that someone in their household had been listening at the door and had passed information on to the young idiot.

Mr. Braunton had come to me on Christmas Eve and he likely had a most pleasant Yuletide on even the advance sum that I paid him for his information. I also arranged for him to keep tabs on Mr. Edward Holmes, and he said that two of that villain's footmen could in his opinion be trusted to keep me up to date on his actions, although not the valet who, he said, 'would sell his own grandmother for tuppence'. I had both said footmen on my payroll before the end of the year, then I sat back and waited. Give him enough rope and he would likely hang himself, but if not..... Arrangements could be made.

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	8. Interlude: Sons And Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1892\. Parenthood and families... sigh!

_[Narration by Lady Aelfrida Holmes]_

Rachael had come round for a visit, bringing young Tantalus with her. The boy was seven years old now, and I would have said that he was totally unlike my eldest son. 

_But not like his real father_ , I thought.

“We are both ladies of the world”, I said, “so let us speak plainly. Prince Tane of Strafford Island.”

She went a horrible shade of red. I do not know why; I expected most of my sons not to know that I would find out everything because they were irredeemably stupid as well as far too full of themselves, but I had expected better of my daughter-in-law.

“We met at a party”, she admitted. “Mycroft was being more himself than usual – he had already been slapped down by young Miss Winterslow and had gone after one of the serving-staff – so when the prince met me in the garden....”

“Was he good?” I asked. 

For some reason that made her go even redder. I was just curious; I had read up about the prince – the king, as he was now – and wanted to know if royalty really were all they were cracked up to be. And of course I had heard the rumours on the grapevine, although I doubted they were completely true... how would he have been able to do up his trousers, for one thing?

“Yes”, she said, seemingly finding the fireside rug fascinating for some reason. “Mycroft.... of course he did not know.”

“At least that particular randy royal is around the other side of the world now so I suppose that is all to the good”, I said. “Much as I would have liked to see him myself, although dear Sherlock told me that he took a rather large souvenir home with him. For research purposes, he _claimed_.”

She nodded.

“Tantalus is a fine boy”, I said, “and you did well to come up with that idea about Greek names so that he could honour his real father. Thankfully there is nothing of Mycroft in him, unlike poor Midas. Never mind the Golden Touch; he will be lucky to get far in life with his attitude.”

“You are not angry?” she asked, clearly surprised.

“We all have our moments of weakness”, I said airily, thinking of a long gone and well-hung nobleman who had been very helpful – in a horizontal sense – during a difficult time in my own life, Sherlock having been (part of the) result. “Unfortunately I think that even Mycroft will see the boy's parentage as he gets older, but we shall cross that bridge when we come to it.”

She was clearly relieved at my attitude, which was all well and good. I had more than enough on my plate just now, especially since my latest work 'Measure For Measure' (the one about a sex potion that struck the men who took it at, ahem, inopportune moments) was proving difficult to finish. Still, a good session this afternoon should do the trick – just in time for when Guilford slipped round to retrieve the sweets that 'someone' had informed him had been found in his room.

My sons. So wonderfully predictable!

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	9. The Great Hiatus, Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1892: The Great Hiatus continues. John tries to both remember his friend and move on. It is not easy.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

This gloomy but busy year began with the death of the queen's eldest grandson and second-in-line to the Imperial throne, the Prince of Wales's son Albert 'Eddy' Duke of Clarence, a man later falsely and vilely maligned as a suspect in the Ripper killings despite having been several hundred miles away for at least two of them (even back then, 'journalists' never let facts get in the way of what they considered a good story). The prince was one of the last victims of a flu pandemic that had originated in Russia some three years earlier and had affected Great Britain on and off since. The death seemed to cast a shadow over the whole year and I began to think that this would be the theme for what remained of my life. I had turned forty now and throughout that year I increasingly felt _old_. What I had left without Sherlock was not life, just existence. 

I had another painful reminder of what I had lost at the end of February. I still read the social pages, often with a tear in my eye as I remembered how Sherlock used to chivvy me over my very occasional interest in them, and that month I read of the engagement of Lord Harry Hawke whom we had helped down in Wiltshire. The illegitimate son of his ill-starred father Lord Tobias, whom Sherlock as a boy had once idolized, Lord Harry was to marry a lady from South Africa called Miss Alice Smith. I fretted as the young nobleman had more than once attracted the sort of gold-digger who gave women a bad name, but there was nothing that I could do but hope. I little knew then just what repercussions that particular union would ultimately have, for so many people.

I still saw Mr. Garrick from time to time; I was sure that he was bringing his lover Mr. Jackson-Giles round for some most trivial medical reasons just to check up on me, but given all that his family was doing for me I did not mind. In March he told me of a shock development concerning another family member, Sherlock's nephew Edward. The eldest son of the fearsome Brigadier Carlyon Holmes, this young man had always been something of a 'loose cannon' and having been rejected in his application to join his father's Army, he had decided that with the world at his feet the obvious thing to do was to embark on a life of crime. He had been disowned and indeed died of a drugs overdose barely a week later. It was only years later that I discovered he had also tried too make contact with one of the late Professor Moriarty's relatives to try to help them get at me, the rat, but the ever-efficient Miss St. Leger had 'stopped' him.

June saw the arrival of Inspector Gregson's second grandson whose father Tobias II, most oddly I thought, called him Gawain (let alone the fact that the horn-dog must have been at it in the recovery room; it was exactly nine months since his eldest son Tobias III's birth). Quite why they gave the boy the name of his grandfather's deadliest rival was a mystery that..... someone would doubtless have untangled in a matter of seconds. That spring also saw the last ever broad-gauge train depart from Paddington Station, and in an impressive feat of engineering the Great Western Railway converted the last two hundred or so miles of wider track to standard-gauge over a single weekend. The fact that it was another part of the past fading away that made me feel depressed, especially when I remembered the broad-gauge train that some eighteen years ago had taken me to Oxford to meet the man that I would fall hopelessly in love with. The man that I had given my heart to, and that I could never have in my arms again.

I threw myself into completing the stories that would comprise the second of my two books and by July the penultimate one, 'The Red-Headed League', was being published in the Strand'. I had battled through writing 'The Final Problem' but the magazine would hold back for a time or so, presumably to increase expectations (and sales!), which meant that the second book would only be published the following March.

The Marquess of Salisbury's government lost a confidence vote that August and he was replaced by the seemingly tireless Gladstone. I mention this fact because in a rare display of royal power Queen Victoria vetoed one of her new prime minister's appointments, that of Mr. Henry Labouchere. He was the idiot who some seven years earlier had been behind the Criminal Law Amendment Act which had re-criminalized male homosexuality and under which later Mr. Oscar Wilde would be so famously prosecuted (prior to this, only sodomy had been a criminal offence). There was speculation that the strident Labouchere had advanced his last-minute amendment solely to prove the foolishness of the new law, which showed in my opinion just how foolish politicians could be - they could come up with daft laws even when they were trying not to!

A bad time all round was marked by a horrible end to the year with the Thirsk railway accident† in which ten people lost their lives, which struck a chord with me as the principal character was a signalman called Mr. James Holmes. He had been up all night trying to arrange care for his daughter Rose who had sadly died, and he not unnaturally had reported himself as unfit for work the following day only for the North Eastern Railway to find that it had no-one to cover for him. The consequence was that he fell asleep for a few minutes and forgot the presence of a train in his section, resulting in the crash. The government (in the form of the Railway Inspectorate) was lambasted in the press for criticizing the poor fellow for the 'crime' of not making his state of mind clear enough to his superior (he had just lost his daughter, for heaven's sake!), and the railway company was rightly roasted for weeks, being compelled to reduce signalmen's hours and arrange better cover. 

I was approached for help in this matter myself as it happened, for a fellow writer called Mrs. Edith Bland up in Yorkshire who was campaigning on behalf of the signalman and, incredibly, was another of those strange ladies who actually liked the works of Sherlock's mother! I know that they say it takes all sorts to make a world, but really! I agreed to write to the Railway Company to petition on behalf of Mr. James Holmes, who upon being rightly discharged of the manslaughter charges levied against him was subsequently re-employed by them as a night-watchmen. Although I suspect that the threat by Lady Holmes to march up there and confront the directors in person was mostly behind that!

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_Notes:_   
_† James Holmes was actually convicted for manslaughter, but the judge gave him an absolute discharge and his verdict was greeted with loud public cheering before he was carried from the court on his supporters' shoulders. Mrs. Bland later wrote of his happenings in her most famous book, writing under her maiden name of Edith Nesbit when she created 'The Railway Children'._

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	10. Interlude: Case Closed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1892\. LeStrade is told to drop it.

_[Narration by Inspector Gawain LeStrade]_

You don't get to be a copper of any sort without knowing when something's not right. And the death a few months back of one Mr. Edward Holmes, son of Mr. Sherlock Holmes's brother Brigadier Carlyon Holmes, had led to a whole lot of speculation that there was a lot more to it than just a drugs overdose. Not that such a thing would've surprised me – the fellow's track record pointed squarely to a Bad End sooner rather than later – but this just _smelled_ wrong. 

Then there was the family who were – what's what weird word? - oh yes, dysfunctional but acting strange even for them. I knew that the late Mr. Edward had fallen out with his military father when the latter had refused to use his influence to get him into the Army (very right of him I might add; last thing you do is give a Bad Lot a gun), but I had wondered at the brigadier's fearsome mother not wanting more of an investigation into the death. Not that I would've dared go round and see her; I still shook each time I remembered reading that story of hers about a children's play-room†!

I had wondered if further inquiries needed to be made, which was a rare mistake in my police career. Even though I was sure I'd said nothing to anyone about my suspicions, I still had a visit from the terrifying Miss St. Leger who told me that the young villain had been murdered because of threats he had made concerning the late Mr. Holmes. I don't know how she managed it but somehow she conveyed to me that his death the previous year had been faked for some reason and that young Mr. Edward Holmes had come to suspect what had happened. Foolishly the boy had decided to try to make money out of it, and it'd been the last of the many mistakes he'd crammed into his short, wretched life. 

Apparently the case of Mr. Edward Holmes was now closed. And his uncle was alive! I'd promised to say nothing of course, and not just because I was scared to death of the woman who, I was sure, had been behind that drugs overdose. 

Sometimes good policing is no policing.

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_Notes:_   
_† 'Jack-In-The-Box', reputedly one of Lady Holmes's most terrifying stories. And that takes some doing!_

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	11. Interlude: A Hands-On Approach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1892\. It is not just the devil who finds work for idle hands. A certain authoress can as well - as one of her sons is about to find out the hard way!

_[Narration by Lady Aelfrida Holmes]_

I was Furious, or what dear Anna would call a Level Eight! It had been bad enough when my idiot grandson Edward had discovered Something Important and tried to make money out of it, only to die of that rather timely drugs overdose. That had been annoying enough as I had had to buy a veil (which I always looked dreadful in) and attend his funeral while trying to look sad (which I had just about managed to pull off). 

And now this! Just when I had been so close to finishing 'Jeopardy!', a supreme confection where three handsome men entering a competition had to guess the question that had sparked a given answer and lost an item of clothing for each incorrect guess! One of my very best works; dear Chuckie said that I had quite excelled myself and he was so sorry that his hearing problems prevented him from hearing it (his doctor was quite insistent on that).

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Mycroft whined as I tightened my grip on his scrawny throat. He had always been a weakling despite being our eldest son, and I had come to despise his treatment of Rachael who might well take a gun to him one of these days which would have been terrible because..... because..... there had to be a reason somewhere..... yes, it takes ages to get blood out of modern carpets. Also I would have to wear that bloody veil again! But after what he had gone and done this time she might well not get the opportunity, which would surely disappoint her. 

Never mind. I would buy her a box of chocolates to make up for it. And at least it would solve the Tantalus Dilemma.

“A little bird tells me, Mycroft”, I said in a voice that dripped false sweetness, “that a certain son of mine has been putting out feelers to a certain Miss Susan Moore.”

He went even redder, which I suppose may have been due to my somewhat restricting his circulation.

“Who?” he tried. His voice was rather high, I thought.

“Owner of an agency that passes on information to criminals”, I said. “She has some very plush offices in Merioneth Street.”

“But they're in Montgomery Street.....” he began before realizing too late the trap that I had set. Stupid as well as traitorous.

“I know that you asked around to find that out”, I said, silently thanking Miss St. Leger for that information. “Now why would someone like you, son, who has never been to the East End in his miserable and wretched life, suddenly wish to go there now of all times? That was the question that I asked myself. Do you know what I came up with as an answer?”

“No!” he managed, in a voice that even a St. Paul's choirboy might have struggled to achieve. Unless he was being castrated at the time.

Now there was an idea for a story...... or for Mycroft, come to that.

“I wondered”, I said, “suppose someone was thinking that if my sweet little Sherry-werry was alive, then that someone – assuming of course that he was a Very Bad Someone Indeed – might try to sell that information for his own gain.”

He was going from red to blue now. I relaxed my grip very slightly; I did not want him dead. At least not just yet.

“Then a happy thought struck me”, I said. “Clearly that Very Bad Someone has _far_ too much time on his hands if he is doing that sort of thing. So I thought to myself; the best thing with a Very Bad Someone who has too much time on their hands is to give them something useful to do.”

He looked horrified. I had no idea why; I was about to be exceptionally generous to him given what he had been planning.

“Yes, your dear Father suggested it”, I said. “And your stepbrother Campbell, oddly enough. That super-novel of mine about a young docker who sets himself the task of marking the departure of every ship from the docks by 'seeing' all the sailors on it. 'Brian's Got Talent'. You can edit all seven volumes for me”

He nodded eagerly. I suppose that technically I moved his head up and down for him, but it was the same thing as far as I was concerned. 

“And you will be pleased to know that there is also the sequel, 'The X-Factor'. I said. “However as that only runs to six chapters – for now at least - I was thinking of a third book to make it a trilogy, which I have provisionally titled 'Get Me Out Of Here'. In the meantime, the first two should keep you busy enough to stay out of trouble.”

He 'nodded' again. Honestly, how had I managed to produce such a stupid boy who had thought that he could do something like that without my finding it out?

“Listen, Mycroft”, I said. “I am already Furious, but if you do not make up for your recent actions by doing a very good job of all that editing, then I may move very swiftly all the way to being Incandescent!”

He shuddered at that, and fainted. Oh yes, the windpipe. I must have tightened my grip without thinking. Ah well.

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	12. The Great Hiatus, Part IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1892\. The Great Hiatus continues. John finds a new way of coping with his loss, and spends a month in a desolate place that matches his mood all too well.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

It was the day after what would have been Sherlock's thirty-eighth birthday when I arrived back at Baker Street to find the main room submerged under a pile of letters. I was confused, until I remembered that my having finally bit the bullet, the first instalment of 'The Final Problem' (it had hurt to write but I had forced myself, feeling that I owed it to my friend's memory) had been published in the 'Strand' the day before, including a warning as to what was to come. Apparently the public was shocked to read that their favourite character was set to die and I was bombarded with questions, commiserations, condolences and more than a few demands for me to change the ending.

Lord, I so wished that I could have done!

Having tidied away most of the letters it suddenly struck me that while I had kept the main room tidy since my return many moons ago, I had not actually ventured into Sherlock's bedroom at all. Indeed I had simply turned the key soon after my return and not given it a thought thereafter, because it had been just too painful. Now I unlocked the door and peeped inside. 

It was a mess and.... very Sherlock. It truly looked like the room of someone who had died and I felt bitterly ashamed, even though I suppose that I should not have done. I backed out of the room, sat down opposite Sherlock's chair (which I never used) and thought.

Half an hour later the surgery had been informed that I would not be in that week and I was covered in dust as I sorted determinedly through the mess. It struck me as I placed papers into various piles that what I was doing was verging on the morbid but I pushed the thought down and finished tidying his papers. I could not clean the room to the standard of Mrs. Hudson's maids but I made it presentable and I dug out fresh sheets for the bed. When I had finished the room once more looked as if someone actually lived there.

A psychiatrist would have had a field-day with me!

I had a visitor just two days later, one that I probably should have expected given the appearance in print of our final adventure. It was Mrs. Phyllis Moriarty, widow of the late and unlamented Professor. She was a small, timid woman who seemed almost embarrassed at having to ask if what I had written about her husband was true. I did not want to hurt her but I told her as much as I could about what had happened. She thanked me and left, and I heard soon after through Mr. Garrick that she had taken her children to start a new life in New South Wales, which I suppose was about as far as she could get from the Moriarty family while staying on the same planet. I believe that she also changed her name and I cannot say that I blamed her. She remarried and never told her children the truth about their infamous father; I know that they all grew up to be responsible members of society as Mr. Garrick continued to monitor them 'just in case'.

Almost without realizing it I fell into the habit of tidying Sherlock's room and remaking the bed on the first day of each month, Mrs. Hudson providing me with sheets and cleaning equipment without comment, bless the woman. I also made sure that Sherlock's area in the main room was kept clean, possibly even tidier than my own bedroom. I had received requests from both the 'Strand' and my publishers (now renamed after a new partner had bought into the business to become Brett, Burke & Hardwicke) for more stories but I had flatly refused, although I agreed to do one final piece answering some of the thousands of questions that had been sent in over the years. The income from that I would give totally to Sherlock's Boys' Home in memory of his charitable nature although I knew from Mr. Garrick that his father had continued to support that institution, presumably in memory of his son. My friend.

October of that year brought a double bonus when two of the late Professor Moriarty's foreign relatives were drowned in a fishing accident. I was beginning to entertain suspicions at this point that Mr. Garrick or at least one of his agents was behind that family's sudden run of bad luck, but after what one of them had done to my beloved Sherlock I could only hope that it continued if not accelerated. They deserved everything that they got! I was also gladdened when I received a telegram from my brother saying that his wife was pregnant and I was set to be an uncle again.

Something rather odd happened that All Hallows' Eve when Mr. Benjamin Jackson-Giles came round to ask me to call on Mr. Garrick who had 'suffered an injury'. Judging from the huge fellow's smirk I could guess all too well just how that 'injury' had come about so went with him. I had been thinking about mentioning to the government official about the sudden bad luck befalling the Moriarty family, but when I mentioned this to Mr. Jackson-Giles in the cab on the way there, he counselled not to 'as his friend was very busy with something right now'. I wondered what was so important but agreed not to bother his friend, who had sprained a part of his anatomy that surprised even me. I mean, even with Mr. Jackson-Giles - _how?_

I had to leave Baker Street for a time shortly after this as one of my patients was entering the final month of her pregnancy which had been difficult throughout, and her husband was willing to pay handsomely for me to spend up to a month at their house in the village of Camber on the Sussex Coast, so that I could be on hand for the delivery. My need for money was less pressing by this time but I quite liked them both, and I knew that Mrs. Hudson wished to take advantage of the departure of another tenant to do a thorough clean-through of 221B, so I said yes. The place lay on the edge of Romney Marsh and was I felt quite depressing, but at least I was able to ease their son into the world when he arrived on schedule. But sometimes when I walked among the barren wastes of the Kent-Sussex border, I felt so terribly, terribly alone. 

I told myself that I had better get used to that feeling.

My departure that November had one drawback in that, predictably, Mr. Jackson-Giles's wife Bertha was expecting again and due at the end of the month, so I arranged for Peter Greenwood to be available for them as that was what Sherlock would have wanted. I was I admit touched when he reported that he had helped deliver twins, who were to be called Mary and Alfred – the middle names of their mother and their father's late friend. In one way at least Sherlock would live on.

I did not hear from Mr. Garrick for some time after that. I wondered what else he might have sprained!

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	13. Interlude: Cherbourg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1892\. Sherlock meets with someone unexpected in a French café.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

I was a little surprised when the figure that entered the Cherbourg café was, if familiar, not quite the one I had expected.

“Hullo, Carl”, I said quietly. “No Luke today?”

The old soldier sighed.

“The wife of a certain sex maniac gave birth to twins the other day”, he said. “One of each. Poor Luke was not exactly in much of a state to make the ferry – or even the stairs for that matter!”

I winced. Benji tended to work out his post-birth and post-christening angsts on my poor cousin, so a double birth.... ouch!

“He named the boy Alfred”, Carl said with a slight smile. “Luke is fairly sure that he knows the truth, for all that he has never said anything. He is a sound fellow.”

From the likes of my soldier brother that was the highest praise indeed.

“I would trust Benji anyway”, I said, touched by the behemoth's gesture in using my middle name for one of his children, “but the fewer who officially know, the better. How is Anne?”

“Not well again”, he sighed. “She puts a brave face on it but we both know that she is slowly losing ground.”

We shared a moment of silence. I knew that for all his stoicism in most things my brother loved his wife deeply, and was suffering badly in her doomed battle against the disease that was slowly killing her.

“I cannot get near Monsieur Dubarry”, I sighed. “He has heard of his cousins' deaths and clearly suspects something, so has pretty much shut himself off from the world. And unless he happens to need a new member of staff, I cannot get at him.”

“Luke has an idea about that”, he said. “The fellow is mad keen on shooting so our cousin is arranging for a new gun club to be set up near his house. Hopefully that will tempt him out.”

“Hopefully”, I agreed. “How long do you think before it is ready?”

He grinned at me.

“Not for a while”, he said. “Poor Luke has to get past the christenings first!”

There was no need for him to be so smug, just because our cousin would soon be even more of a wreck that he was now. I could not abide smug people! Not could I abide the likes of this fellow when I told him that and he gave me a look that was for some reason far too judgemental. I would have said something, but irritatingly he was like Campbell bigger than me.

Life was unfair at times!

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	14. Interlude: Need To Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1892\. Even a man who sells his body to help earn a crust knows when he does not need to know.

_[Narration by Mr. Benjamin Jackson-Giles, Esquire]_

There's something great about reducing a fine figure of a man like Mr. Lucifer to the point where he just clings on to me, broken and gasping after that fierce fucking he'd asked for because of 'another difficult week at work'. But then he works for the government, so pretty much every week was 'difficult'. He had other worries too, even though I wasn't supposed to know about those.

I shifted inside of him, and felt his spent cock twitch feebly against my belly. Then I played with his hair, which I knew he loved.

“So good, Benji”, he muttered as he cuddled into me. “I do not know what I would do without you.”

I smiled at that. I suppose most people would have considered our Arrangement a bit odd, but with a growing family I needed more income than my 'regular' jobs brought in and my wonderful Bet had accepted that provided I limit myself to one man she was all right with me selling my body (she wasn't really, but like me she knew marriage was about compromise and this was the best if not a perfect solution). 

Mr. Lucifer insisted on helping out as much as I would allow and he put money aside for all of our kids, nine with the arrival of the twins Mary (Bet's middle name) and Alfred (Mr. Sherlock's). Not forgetting Doctor Watson who insisted on still providing free medical treatment to us, which we could never have afforded. He'd even arranged for a friend of his to cover for him that time he'd had to leave the capital for some fussy patient or other., My life was pretty good all told.

“Bet says I can stay overnight, Mr. Lucifer sir”, I said. “Seeing as how you're having a hard time.”

“I doubt that I will ever be hard again after that!” he muttered as he tried to burrow even deeper into me. “You are so wonderful, Benji. Life is just simple when I am with you.”

He sighed happily and I wrapped my arms around him. I knew that the strain of protecting both Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Watson, on top of all his other work, was telling on the poor old fellow but then that was what we had the Arrangement for. So he could relax and unwind with a stupid lummocks like me who knew nothing of his work and who just came round to fuck him senseless.

He was asleep, the poor old thing. I carefully eased back onto the bed while staying inside of him, then wrapped my taller form around his shorter one. He could relax for a while, safe in my arms away from the world and its cares.

Bet was right. I was becoming a sap in my... early middle age.

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	15. The Great Hiatus, Part V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1893\. The Great Hiatus continues. With his literary career over, John endures a year filled with things that remind him of what he once had.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

This year was marked by several events of note, the first of which happened in February when another of Professor Moriarty's relatives was shot in France while walking too near a shooting range. For some reason that particular death made me bitter; why could that sort of thing not have happened to their evil relative and have spared me my friend? Sherlock's cousin Mr. Garrick visited me soon afterwards and reminded me that only two close family remained now; the villain's younger brother Kurt and their father Louis. I was still at potential risk – I knew from bitter experience how news always seemed to reach the ears of people whom one did not wish to hear of it – but at least that risk was reduced.

I had a painful reminder of everything I had lost in February when Inspector LeStrade's nephew Valiant came down to London with his family. His wife Jane was heavily pregnant with their next family member and would not have joined him had their visit not been to her seriously ill sister. The young sergeant, who had grown even more impressive since the time Sherlock and I had met him in Reigate, confided in me that he was worried about his new doctor back in Kirkby Stephen, but as it turned out that was not an immediate concern as his wife went into labour two weeks ahead of her time and I was called round to help deliver young Cador LeStrade, their sixth son. My respect for the boy's father increased only further when, upon being pressed, he admitted that he had not wanted to approach me since Sherlock and I were godfathers to his eldest two sons the twins Tristram and Torre. I assured him that I would wish to further honour my late friend's memory by standing in for him as regarded Tristram until the boy came of age, seventeen years from now. Thankfully the income I had received from both my few patients and my recent books had made me a reasonably rich man, so I was able to do this.

The next event gave me a rare lift when that April my sister-in-law gave birth to a son whom they called Henry. It was a very difficult birth, eight days overdue, and her doctor advised her that having any more children would be dangerous. I knew that that would probably have upset Stevie a little as he had hoped for four or five children, but he loved his wife too much to risk her health.

June turned out to be a very busy month. First there was the marriage of Prince George, the Prince of Wales's second son, to the Teck (a small province in the Kingdom of Württemberg in western Germany) Princess Victoria Mary Augusta Louise Olga Pauline Claudine Agnes, better known for obvious reasons as just Princess Mary. She had been betrothed to the ill-fated Prince Albert Victor but upon his death had been 'transferred'; I was sure that the various women's rights organizations had plenty to say about _that!_. I did not attend the wedding but Baker Street was gaudily decorated for the occasion and I remember thinking that the last time such a 'transfer' had happened the groom had been King Henry the Eighth and his bride the luckless Catherine of Aragon. I really hoped that in this case at least history did not decide to repeat itself; at least Prince George seemed a much steadier character than his errant father.

A few weeks after the wedding I was at the unveiling of a fountain and golden statue in Piccadilly Circus, and what happened probably showed just how far gone I was in that something so obviously unconnected somehow still contrived to remind me of Sherlock. I had been attending with Mr. Garrick as his family was celebrating the birth of Sir Edward's first great-grandson, Charles Holmes the son of Lieutenant-General Carlyon Holmes's second son Charles, and I remember standing there thinking how most newspapers had wrongly described the statue as being of Eros whereas it was his brother Anteros; the god of love returned, not love given. My love had been given wholly and completely long ago, and would now never be returned. 

Grown men did not cry. Even on windy days like this.

I had turned away for a moment, lest my thoughts be too clear in my face. Looking across the Circus I espied a tall fellow wearing a leather jacket whose long wheaten hair had been blown by the summer winds into a mess reminiscent of my late friend's much darker locks. This fellow had on a pair of small round spectacles and was looking vaguely around before he shuffled off. I was distracted by Mr. Garrick speaking to me and when I looked back, the fellow had gone. 

I sighed unhappily. If only wishing did indeed make it so!

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	16. Interlude: Piccadilly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1893\. Mistakes.

_[Narration by Mr. Lucifer Garrick, Esquire]_

I had not believed that someone as clever as Sherlock could have been that stupid! There were still Moriartys out there who needed removing from the face of the earth yet he had to go and risk it all – and for what? One distant look at the man he loved!

Further thought was rendered difficult when Benji came inside me for Lord alone what number of times, then effortlessly lifted me up and caught my prostate in a way that would have had me coming had I had anything left in the tank. But I doubted that I would ever come again after what he had put me through and Lord, it was _glorious!_

In pursuit of one of the vermin Sherlock had, against my advice, followed his target to London. I had just known that he would want to see his beloved doctor while he was here, let alone that he knew full well his mother had invited the doctor and I along to the unveiling of a new statue in Piccadilly. Even with him in disguise it was an unnecessary risk, but when he looked at me so pitifully – damnation, it was bad enough getting that from the behemoth currently rocking my world.

Said behemoth very unfairly used my distraction to tweak my nipples and I shuddered pleasurably as he walked me around the room. I was not a small man – indeed I was almost the same height although I had nothing like my lover's muscle definition - but he always seemed able to handle me effortlessly just because he was a few years younger (all right, fifteen!) than me. He also knew when I was overly stressed because as with his own post-christening emotional wind-downs I would just don that Panama hat and tell him to have at it. 

Boy, would he have at it!

Sod's Law meant that the doctor had of course looked across at the strange blond fellow across Piccadilly, but fortunately I came up with an asinine observation and by the time he looked back Sherlock had turned away and was moving off. He was heading west to the Isle of Wight, I knew, and hopefully some water between him and the man he loved would deter him from any more unnecessary risks until the Moriarty danger was at an end.

I snapped back to the present when I realized that Benji had reached the doorway which meant.... ye Gods, the horror of the stairs! I just hung on for the ride and relaxed into his strong, safe arms.

“Easy, Mr. Lucifer sir”, he said quietly. “I've got you.”

Yes, he had me. And he always would have me. At least I had that much.

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	17. Interlude: Grandfathering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1893\. A tough if not that old soldier gets some good news about family.

_[Narration by Brigadier Carlyon Holmes]_

I smiled as I recognized my visitor. That my son Edmund had come all this way to Brecknockshire told me that he had news which was good – well, mostly good.

“Jane finally popped”, he grinned, sitting down with a sigh.

“What was it?” I asked. The boy – the young man - had been worried about his wife's first pregnancy and, unusually, I had pulled a few strings to get him some time off around the birth. The family thing aside he had the makings of a good soldier as did his elder brother Charles, who would doubtless be annoyed at having been pipped in the race to provide me and Anne with our first grandchild. Their late elder brother.... hmm.

Then the thought hit me – Anne and my first grandchild! Ugh! The bastard's eyes twinkled as he correctly divined my thoughts.

“I stopped in on Mother first as I promised”, he said, “but Uncle Luke had some papers that he wanted to send to you and he asked that as I would be coming to see you I take them myself.”

He handed over a brown folder, which I knew contained my cousin's ongoing efforts to help my brother rid the world of the curse of the Moriartys. Six of the vermin had thus far been dispatched (the first with my help) but the seventh was proving a more slippery fish, worse luck. 

“I would have asked how he knew that I was coming”, Edmund smiled, “but I thought that I had better not.”

And that was why he would go far in the Army, I thought, knowing when to ask and when not to ask. Not as far as his illustrious father, of course.

“You have not told me yet whether it was a boy or a girl”, I pointed out.

“Both!” he grinned triumphantly. “Little wonder poor Jane was so bloated; they were pretty much full-sized. We named the girl Anne of course, for Mother, and the boy Arthur.”

He had asked if I wanted my name used for a boy, but I felt that my youngest son and namesake, despite being only nine years old, should have that right first and so had declined. Besides, that would only make me feel even older.... 

Someone in my immediate vicinity was one smirk away from being disinherited, damn the villain!

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	18. The Great Hiatus, Part VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1893\. The Great Hiatus continues. In the remainder of 'Ninety-Three John meets an old friend, one man dies at least a little happy, and another has an 'unfortunate accident'.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

At the end of autumn I had an unexpected visitor to Baker Street, my old friend Stamford. He had been posted to some Oriental outpost but we had continued to communicate despite the sometimes erratic mail system over there. I had known that he was due back in England come next spring but he had contracted something horrible out there and the doctors had posted him home at once. It was good to care for someone for a few days as it distracted me from my own worries, although at the start of September my friend returned to his home in our native Northumberland.

Two days after Stamford's departure it was Sherlock's birthday – it would have been his thirty-ninth. It passed uneventfully and it was perhaps fortunate that I spent the days either side of it attending on one of my clients, Lady Delamere's sister Mrs. Washington, whose first-born son made a bid for freedom a full month ahead of his time. Fortunately he was healthy enough when he made it into the world and I suppose that I owed him a debt of gratitude for distracting me at such a difficult time.

There was a relatively happy moment at the end of the year. The terminally ill Lord Theobald Hawke, who had inherited the title aged just two on his brother Lord Tobias's untimely death back in 'Sixty-Two, had finally passed early in the autumn but he had known that the next generation was on its way as his nephew and successor Lord Harry was finally set to be a father. Sure enough that November saw Lady Alice Hawke safely delivered of twins, whom her husband called Tobias and Trelawney (the latter a Hawke family name, apparently). I wished that Sherlock had been there to see that all his efforts looked set to bear fruit, and that there would one day be another Lord Tobias Hawke at Brunton Hall.

I missed my friend so much!

At least the year ended on a good note. Winter came early and struck across both Great Britain and the near Continent. I was warmed by the news from Mr. Garrick that the cold weather had claimed the life of the late Professor Moriarty's elderly father, Louis. An early Christmas present, even if I no longer really felt like marking the festive season.

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	19. Interlude: Last Man Standing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1893\. Sherlock is in Picardy, but is still reminded of John.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Five down and only one to go. I suppose that I should have felt some scruples about murdering five men in cold blood, but these were all killers themselves and all of the Moriarty blood who would have gone after John if once they had realized what I had done to the Professor and that he was all I (apparently) had left behind. Five of them would never have that opportunity – and the sixth was doomed, little though he knew it.

I was in the small town of St. Quentin in Picardy, France, where my final target Mr. Kurt Moriarty had recently moved from Germany having heard rumours that his late brother might be alive and hiding in the area (Luke, of course). This villain was as careful as some of his kin had been, and it had been with great reluctance that I agreed that I would shortly allow Luke to let him uncover the truth about his brother's death. He would then surely go after the man that I... my friend, and I would have him!

Talking of having someone, I really needed to have Words with Benji about the dreadful state that he was leaving my poor cousin in. Luke had been barely able to sit down at our last meeting, and I had been strongly tempted to allow myself a small smirk. But such a thing would have been beneath me, so I did not.

Well, not much of one. Besides, Luke had been far too full of himself again so I had wired to a certain shop in Baker Street for another of their Bumper Boxes. Maybe even the Supreme Special edition. That would take my cousin down a peg or four!

I was distracted from my thoughts by the large Christmas tree in the town square. This recent idea of bringing the outdoors with all its undesirable denizens inside for the festive season had always frankly bewildered me, but John had loved it (as in gone mad over) it and had always gone overboard when it came to decorating (which was why I had been worried when Benji had told Luke that when he had gone round to Baker Street 'for a check-up' last December, the place had been undecorated). I looked forward with a mixture of anticipation and dread to when we had both retired and had a place of our own, which he would certainly smother to within an inch of its life. And then blush so prettily when I challenged him on it....

Some day. Soon.

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	20. Interlude: In The Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1894\. Lucifer Garrick finds that his temper can land him in deep trouble, and lead to other people having a 'whale' of a time.

_[Narration by Mr. Lucifer Garrick, Esquire]_

Apart from certain body parts which were relishing the opportunity to recover, the rest of me was quite sorry that I had not had Benji at his wildest for over a year now. After the arrival of the twins Alfred and Mary at the end of 'Ninety-Two Doctor Watson had strongly advised Benji to wait a year at least before trying to get into double figures. Naturally he had come round to me and there had been the Panama Hat, but since then we had had only 'regular sex'. Which had been great seriously, the man's stamina! - but I knew that he was worried for his beloved Bertha and that in turn worried me.

Once the year was up I arranged for Doctor Watson to thoroughly examine Bertha and sure enough, he gave the all clear. Which was why just two months later – the dog must have been at it almost before Watson had been out of his door! - Bertha was expecting again. So Benji had come round, I had worn the Hat, and was once again a happily broken man.

I also had a broken bone in my hand which Doctor Watson had had to set for me. Not through the sex – it was other bones that suffered wear and tear then – but once I had recovered, I had had Benji accompany me to one of my clubs and that young idiot Palliser had made a disparaging remark about Benji's skin colour. I had taken offence, and he had had to have his jaw rewired which at least would stop him making any more stupid remarks for a while. And if he thought that was bad, the bastard Benji had persuaded me to let Sherlock's fearsome mother know, and she was headed to Palliser's hospital bed to inquire why he had said what he had said. Along with her latest crime against literature, 'Moby Dick', which apparently involved a vacuum-pump.

For once in my life I was really grateful for the lack of further information. The mental image from what I already knew was bad enough, thank you!

Also Benji had been so grateful for my defending his honour that he had offered to bowl again. The Demonator had trembled at that prospect, but my traitorous mouth had said yes before I could get my brain in order. And little though I knew it, some bastard of a little brother had slipped Benji another huge box of supplies just because I may have been the merest shade too prideful on the odd occasion or two.

Meh, who needed to walk, anyway?

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	21. The Great Hiatus, Part VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1894\. The Great Hiatus continues. There is worrisome news concerning the last of the Moriartys, as a result of which John has to carry a loaded gun on his rounds.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

The year got off to a bad starts when Mr. Garrick informed me that the sole surviving Moriarty, the vile Professor's brother Kurt, had moved from his native Cologne to the town of Saint-Quentin in Picardy, but a short train journey from Calais where ferry crossings to Dover left daily. Mr. Garrick's agents were watching him but he was now uncomfortably close at hand.

 _(I suppose that I should have mentioned this earlier, but when all this was done with a surprisingly large number of people wrote and asked why all my dealings with the Holmes family went through Sherlock's cousin rather than the pestilential lounge-lizard who had been such a persistent (like a rash) presence in Sherlock's life. The reasons were in fact twofold; first, in my current frame of mind I might well have shot at the bastard if I had seen him, as I would surely have gotten away with justifiable homicide. Second, which I found out later, Lady Holmes had told her annoying son in no uncertain terms that if he went anywhere near me during that time,_ she _would shoot him – and she would aim her first shot low! As Miss Thackeray would have said, 'you go, girl!')._

In the last week of February Mr. Garrick called again and told me that Mr. Kurt Moriarty almost certainly knew that I had been involved in his brother's death and had instructed his brother's henchman in England, Mr. Elias Evans (the fellow I had briefly encountered in Miss St. Leger's office some years back), to dispatch me. To his surprise and consternation Mr. Evans had refused – it was implied (and I later had it corroborated) that Miss St. Leger may have been instrumental in 'persuading' him in this matter - and Mr. Evans had predictably himself been shot soon after. However he had survived and had been able to provide Mr. Garrick with a full list of his late and un-lamented employer's other agents in England. Which was wonderful.

Until March the eleventh arrived, the day before the anniversary of that dreadful day three years back, and Mr. Garrick arrived to tell me that Mr. Kurt Moriarty had disappeared from his French home and could not be found. Hellfire and damnation!

I was now (hopefully) the only London doctor who carried a loaded revolver with him in his jacket-pocket. As things turned out, with good reason.

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End file.
